


A Cupcake Tour of Brooklyn

by aactionjohnny



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, New York City, Post-Armageddon’t
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-10-05 20:56:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20495204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aactionjohnny/pseuds/aactionjohnny
Summary: They literally go on a cupcake tour of Brooklyn as a romantic gesture on the part of Crowley.





	A Cupcake Tour of Brooklyn

**Author's Note:**

> I was thinking about years ago when all of a sudden everything was a cupcake joint and how it would be a golden age for Aziraphale’s tummy

In the wide, round center room of the Prospect Park zoo, Crowley stands contrapposto before the high glass wall that keeps the Pallas cat in its mock-up climate. It’s the kind of animal that makes him think of Aziraphale, which is stupid, he knows, because he is rarely ever  _ not _ thinking about him. But this soft beast, cushioned by a thick layer of fur, sitting high upon the rock wall, shares his friend’s temperament. It looks like such a gentle thing, such a warm and fuzzy thing, but in its eyes there is a spark of bitter contrarianism. Just like his angel. Deceptive and clever, the Pallas cat also charms with its adorable wiles. Crowley grins as the cat stretches and yawns, and he remembers that his angel hardly ever sleeps.

Which is why he’s so nervous. Aziraphale is never late, and yet it’s been ten minutes since he agreed upon time, and there’s no way he’s simply overslept. Crowley wonders if he’ll be stood up, considering that maybe, now that world hasn’t ended, he’s not needed anymore. They don’t need to hold the balance any longer, because the “plan” has failed.

He turns his head and looks out the swinging door. Through the glass he sees a wandering, strutting peacock, and a plump hand holding food for it to eat. He would know that hand anywhere, would know the neat cuff of his sleeve anywhere. Betraying his interest in the Pallas cat, he turns on his heels and saunters to the door to greet him.

“Making friends?” he asks, smiling down at him as he feeds the peacock.

“So sorry I’m late, dear. Navigating the subway is never anything short of a disaster. And then there’s this dear fellow…” Aziraphale runs a hand down the bird’s long, shining neck. “Lovely creature.”

“He must like you. Showing off his feathers n’ everything,” Crowley says, unthinking, wincing to himself after. That  _ is  _ what the lesser creatures do when they want someone: they show their feathers. Crowley, he’s not much better, always flashy and eager to show off the slim curves of his human body. It’s been a six-thousand year mating ritual. He’s tired.

Which is why they’re in Brooklyn. They’ve visited before, taken museum trips and crossed the bridge to see plays and the like, reveling in the higher-class commodities of the city. But this time he’s tailored the day specifically for one of his angel’s favorite things:

Dessert.

The city has recently been swept by a new-old sensation, little cupcake shops popping up on nearly every block, charming little places all pink and blue like a baby’s just been born. Sweet and innocent and full of sugar, it seemed the perfect thing to do to impress an angel. Soften him up with sweets, then tell him, after drinks, that you want him forever…

Even Crowley admits the plan is half-assed, but he’s happy just at the prospect of watching Aziraphale enjoy cupcakes all day.

“Well. Should we go see the other animals?” Aziraphale asks, bidding his peacock friend goodbye. “I suppose this young man is leading us back to the aviary.”

“Nah, Angel, got other plans today,” Crowley says, already turning to leave, trying to hide his nervous smile. “Something I think you’ll like.”

“Oh, don’t tell me you’re taking me to the  _ Phantom _ revival, I’m so sick of—“

“Not that either. Come on. Hope you’re hungry.”

“Hungry?”

“Going t’show you the kingdoms of the world, Angel. Bespoke desserts, all day. You would hate to miss out on a craze when it’s to do with tiny little frosted cakes, right?”

“Oh, Crowley,” he coos, catching up to him, his hands clasped together before him. “That’s so thoughtful…”

Crowley smiles proudly as he struts onto the sidewalk, holding open the bronze gate to the park for Aziraphale to pass through. Thoughtful, yes, because his thoughts are always consumed. Especially of late, now that they’re safe from being bothered, now that he’s lived to look in the mirror and see his most beloved. Now that they’ve toasted to the whole, wide world but he had wished so dearly he would have been more clear. _ To you. To us. You are everything. _ Fuck’s sake, it all sounds so foolish. 

They arrive at their first stop, a place owned by two sisters, called  _ Flour Girl, _ with only a bar to sit at. Behind it there is a plastic display case with some of their more popular cupcakes, adjacent to an espresso machine and a pyramid of unique mugs. Aziraphale’s eyes do seem to glow at the sight, the aesthetic of it so close to his own little home. Starting someplace that feels familiar, Crowley thought, would be wise. Aziraphale loves his bookshop, loves the safe brick walls and the dust. Though this place manages to be much cleaner, still there is a stack of books in the corner that reaches the ceiling, coated in a lacquer to keep them as a statue. 

“Lovely, Crowley,” he says as he takes a seat on one of the wooden barstools. “Feels just like home.”

That home, where so many nights they’ve spent drunk and talking, a lifetime of missed opportunities. Each time the moonlight filtered in through the dirty windows, he ought to have said something. But the fear of Hell has so long kept him silent. And now, he’s no longer got anything to lose.

One of the sisters comes to the counter, smiling brightly. Crowley adores her fashion, puts his fingers to his chin to study. He’d only spoken to her on the phone, made her promise the shop would be empty, and he’d found her a kindred spirit. But now he knows for sure, seeing her dark clothes and the red necklace that hangs from her neck. Her face, smiling brightly, surrounded by a black hijab. He wonders where she got her oxblood lipstick, but there are more important things to worry about. Like the menu.

“Oh it all sounds so good, dear girl,” Aziraphale marvels as he reads. “What would you recommend?”

She takes a moment to consider, tapping on the counter. Crowley eyes the coffee bar menu.

“For you, sir, I think devil cake and red velvet marble,” she says, and Crowley swears he sees her wink at him. “Just seems to be your type.”

“Oh, yes  _ please _ ,” Aziraphale agrees, closing the menu. “And chocolate frosting. Oh! And a cappuccino!”

“And you?” she asks Crowley, taking back the menu.

“Just a latte, Miss, that will be fine.”

They get their coffee and they blow on the surfaces in unison. One of many little routines they’ve come to adopt, unspoken, subtle. The coffee is strong and the milk is perfectly foamed, and they chat over the sounds of baking. Behind the kitchen window, they see another girl, her clothes covered in flour and frosting. The counter girl is helping her.

“Angel,” Crowley says, running a finger around the rim of his mug. It says  _ World’s Greatest Mom. _ “Do you remember when we were here last?”

“Of course,” Aziraphale says, cheery but sounding almost insulted. That’s his angel. For a lack of all better words, he’s catty. Like Pallas cats… “We were in Central Park. Years ago.”

“Simon and Garfunkel,” Crowley reminds him. “And…” He takes a sip of his latte. “Do you remember what we did after?”

“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale says, his eyes drifting anxiously toward the kitchen, eager to eat. “You took me to the top of a very high building. It was such a clear night.”

“We looked at the stars.”

“You told me which ones you made.”

“Can you believe—“

“That people think you meant to paint a picture of Orion? It was one of their more foolish moments.”

“I did it at random, honestly.”

“Dear boy, we’ve had this conversation before.”

Crowley smiles, looking at him, how his fingers curl around the mug. 

“I know. Just wanted to make sure you remembered it.”

Aziraphale gives him a curious look, and he turns to him in full, placing an elbow on the bar, ready to ask just as to  _ why _ he’s so hell-bent on reminiscing, but then the girl returns with his dessert on a charming little plate. There is a thick raspberry syrup atop the icing, made into a little heart.

“There you are, sir,” she says. The look of absolute marvel on Aziraphale’s face is so endearing, Crowley finds he cannot control how he bites his lower lip, admiring the thrill in his eyes.

“Oh, dear girl, thank you,” he says, taking the delicate little fork in his hand.

He eats rather slow, and they talk more about their night in the park. Crowley sang  _ Cecilia _ on the walk back to the hotel, until Aziraphale had grown so sick of it he begged him to stop. They’d shared minibar drinks despite the high bill, and fallen asleep in separate beds. Crowley remembers staring across the room, constantly tempted to ask  _ Angel, are you awake? Do you dream? Am I in them? _ Drunk and mooning as he’d always been.

They leave the flour girls a very generous, miraculous tip, and head back out into the street, full of energy from their coffee.

“Where to next, Crowley?” Aziraphale asks, his chin tilted up to the clear blue sky, taking in the shape of the brick-lined vista above them.

“Nice little place in Park Slope, and it’s noontime now so they won’t judge us for getting a cocktail.”

“Ah yes, brunch time. I do hope the orange juice is freshly squeezed.”

Crowley gives him a flat look.

“Would I take you anywhere that stoops so low?” he says, seeping with playful bitterness. Aziraphale smiles, absolving him as he does each and every time. Shit, how he wishes he could just jump the gun, confess it all, get on his knees in the middle of Brooklyn in front of everyone and tell him how he wants him for always. But too much does he adore showering his angel in sweets and sights. He can’t back out of his plan, now that Aziraphale seems so delighted by it. One final sweetness to ensure that he will love him. 

He is too afraid to ask.  _ Do you love me?  _ Idiotic. Too pathetic and pleading for a demon.

As if taking an angel through the city to eat cupcakes all day is  _ so _ befitting his position.

They arrive at their next stop, and Crowley is quick to hold the glass door open. This one is a little more his vibe, all sleek and dark and bathed in proto-punk from the speakers.  _ Sweet Vengeance _ has a perfect score from online reviews, despite how harsh a place it might seem. Even Aziraphale seems charmed by it, running a hand along the black marble table before he takes a seat. This place, too, is empty except for them, thanks to a very large sum Crowley paid to the owner.

“Anthony, right?” a man asks, sauntering in so similar a fashion out from the back office. Crowley gestures for him to shut up, worried he will give him away and reveal to his angel how orchestrated the whole thing has been. Mercifully the man obliges, baring his teeth in apology. 

He’s a tall, skinny thing in a X-Ray Spex tank top.

“Mimosas please,” Crowley says, flopping down in the seat opposite Aziraphale. “And for you…?”

“Oh...surprise me!” he ventures, tapping his fingers upon the table.

“You got it, man,” he says, triumphantly folding his tattooed arms across his chest and slumping away.

A young lady brings them their drinks, and they tap the glasses together as if they’ve got anything in particular to celebrate. Crowley feels they do, but it’s not happened yet. The bubbling calm of the champagne makes him all the more serpentine, and he leans forward on the table, chin in his hands to gaze lovingly at his angel.

“Something on your mind, my dear?” Aziraphale asks, sipping his mimosa with a slow blinking of his eyes. Like a cat, indeed.

“Do you remember when we took that gondola ride?” he asks out of the blue, another vivid memory, another missed opportunity.

“Oh, yes, it was very...er— romantic, I suppose,” Aziraphale says, once again looking toward the kitchen.

“Might say…” Crowley coughs and wishes he had another mimosa, as if any amount of alcohol has ever made him less of a coward. “Do you remember what happened?”

“I miracled up a lovely pair of swans for you, Crowley. And a large fish to swim around beneath the boat.”

“It gleamed in the moonlight.”

“All manner of colors…”

“Did you get in trouble for that one?”

Aziraphale bites his lip, as if he’s got a secret. His cupcake is presented then before him, an adorable little angel cake with thin lines of frosting making a nearly plaid pattern across the top, adorned with little flowers along the edge.

“Oh, how cute,” he says. “It’s almost a shame to eat it, don’t you think?”

“Answer me, angel…”

“If you insist…” He parts the cupcake with his fork, marveling at the soft crumble. “I lied to them.”

“You did?”

It happens all over again, as it has happened so many times. Aziraphale surprises him with some funny little sin, and deeper and deeper does the love in his heart drag him down.

“I…” He quiets himself with a healthy bite, but then he has no other recourse but to speak. “I told Michael there were two young lovers on the river, and that the boy was so nervous to ask for her hand, so I made it... _ romantic _ , like I said…”

Crowley tries so hard to quell the ecstatic grin he feels rumbling within him, the pure elation of hearing that his angel has been bad, and that he clung to any excuse to make that moment, so long ago, magical— his heart swells. But he must still himself just a little longer.

Next they head downtown a bit, past pizza places and diners and used clothing stores that Crowley wishes he had time to peruse, past couples holding hands and children trying to run ahead of their parents with an innocent abandon. All heading for their final stop on the dessert tour.

It’s a tiny little hole in the wall, no bigger than a walk-in closet. It is lit by hanging lights, the four walls lined with local art and vintage signage. As they approach, Crowley places a hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“Yes dear?” he asks, looking almost disappointed, as if he really cannot wait to have another cupcake. 

“Do you remember when we went to the Bacchus mysteries?”

“What has gotten into you today, Crowley?”

“I’ll explain later, just...do you remember it?”

“Miraculously, yes. We were quite drunk.”

Crowley lets his hand fall back to his side, into his pocket, and he stares at the sidewalk below.

“Do you remember what I said?”

“You said many things.”

“But the  _ one _ thing, Angel.”

“Was it—“

“What I said to you between the columns.”

He had been leaning against one white pillar, swirling a glass of wine in his lazy hand. Aziraphale, ever compared, stood stock-straight and proper despite his drunkenness. Crowley had taken a long sip, and a deep breath, and proclaimed—

“... ‘I would do this again. Forever.,’” Aziraphale quotes, following suit and looking between his toes.

“Yeah,” Crowley says. “You never agreed.”

“I was drunk—“

“So I...I dunno…” Crowley sniffs and scuffs one shoe along the ground. “Will you?”

“Will I do what?”

“Be with me? Forever?”

Aziraphale’s lips hang open, and he stammers.

“Angel, I mean...will you be...just with me? As in…” Crowley groans. “Will you spend the rest of your very long life with me?”

A smile creeps onto Aziraphale’s face, and then his nose crinkles, and the wrinkles in his face make Crowley sure he’s about to be laughed at.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, giggling through it. “Did you not think that was already the case?” 

“Wh—“

“You’re so sweet to  _ ask _ , Crowley, but I had no intention of doing otherwise.”

He blinks. 

“Really?”

Aziraphale dissolves into more laughter, delighted and adoring, and he steps close, surrounding Crowley’s cheeks with his hands. He sighs and tilts his head, sparkling eyes searching behind those dark glasses.

“My dear…” He slides his hands around the back of his neck, enveloping him in an embrace so long in the making Crowley is surprised he does not collapse. “What was it you said to me? How can I be so clever and so stupid?”

Crowley snorts, a softening laugh, and he wraps Aziraphale up in his skinny arms and cannot help but smell his hair, admiring how the soft curls make a beloved pillow against his cheek.

They stand embracing for a while, the sounds of the city circling them, drifting and morphing into obscurity. All meaningless noise. There is nothing else in the world, sometimes, than him. To think, he didn’t have to pull this huge stunt after all, but looking back, he doesn’t regret it. Anything to see his angel smile. He really is quite bad at being a demon, isn’t he?

“Well?” Aziraphale asks, pulling away some, letting his hands fall to Crowley’s chest. “Are you going to kiss me?”

“Why’s everything gotta be my responsibility?” he chides, in jest.

“I gave you the swans, dear. It’s your turn to be romantic.”

Crowley grips the fabric of Aziraphale’s jacket as he presses their lips together, clinging like he might fall down or get dragged back to hell with flaming fury. Timid at first, lips just brushing like the soft touch of a ghost. Then in full, tasting sugar and coffee and champagne and fresh oranges. Then deeper still, jaws parting some, their arms sliding freely around one another, holding tight. Their tongues, meeting at the tip, then slickly side by side, fingers digging into jackets and toes curling in leather shoes. It is every sweet sensation at once, and Crowley wonders, in the back of his selfish mind, if Aziraphale prefers this to cake. He’d be lying if he said it wouldn’t make him feel honored.

He swoons, letting out a soft hum as their lips part, breathless, blushing, letting his arms hang limply over Aziraphale’s shoulders.

“I would do that again,” his angel says. “Forever.”

Crowley practically shivers in a newfound joy, and he kisses his cheek, takes his hand, and pulls him into the private little bakery. On the table there is already a bottle of red wine, two upturned crystal glasses waiting to be filled.

“What’s this place called, Crowley?”

“Bacchus…”

Aziraphale’s smile is so undeniably smitten. Tonight they’ll drink, and they’ll eat, and Crowley will ask him again, one time for every year he’s been a coward, to be with him forever.

**Author's Note:**

> Every time I think I’m done writing about them they just won’t let me stop and it’s ok tbh
> 
> Have you ever seen a Pallas cat???? Please look them up if not
> 
> Let me know what u think <3


End file.
